Over her shoulder, Monsieur de Devaux regarded her intently.
How could she explain she couldn’t bear being a spectacle any longer?
Her second sight wasn’t a secret to him, though he’d not been present during a prior onset. Nonetheless, he hadn’t a notion what a cumbersome yoke her fey had become.
No one did. Not even her family. They believed her special and blessed, that she treasured the anomaly. People also overestimated how much she actually saw in advance.
Their ignorance exposed how little they knew her.
From the beginning, she’d detested the revelations. As a ten-year-old child, her first one had foretold her grandmother’s death after a prolonged illness. Seonaid had blamed herself for months afterward.
More than once, she’d feigned ignorance of an ominous event’s revelation. How could she be the bearer of sorrowful tidings? To her knowledge, naught could be done to change the vision’s outcome, so wasn’t it better to let people go about with their lives until the tragedy occurred?
Most people endured the occasional bad or terrifying dreams. But imagine your worst fears play out while wide-awake, and escaping them was impossible.
Except, perhaps, by losing my virginity.
Una had whispered that last helpful tidbit when, after an especially disturbing vision in which Seonaid’s dear cousin Gregor had been wounded, she’d collapsed in her chamber, overcome by tears.
She sighed, sadness replacing her unpleasant musings. What was to become of her? True, her sex restricted her options, but the second sight, more so.
“You’re an uncommonly brave woman, I think, Mademoiselle Ferguson.”
Ridiculously pleased at Monsieur de Devaux’s compliment, although she shouldn’t be, she permitted a tiny smile. Not as much brave as desperate, but she couldn’t tell him that.
“I don’t fear much when in Una’s company. She’s immensely proud of her Viking heritage and knows how to wield a knife. I too have been trained in weaponry, as has every female in my family.”
“Yes, but a man should be with you for added protection.” His boots pounded rhythmically behind her. “Your family knows you’re coming, non? I should think this weather has them worried.”
They’d attained the second floor landing and turned the corner to ascend to the third story. She tramped up the last few stairs, her heavy pelisse, the lengthy climb, and exhaustion’s shroud taking their toll.
“I did send a letter.” The day before we departed. “So my parents do know approximately when to expect me—” An unbidden yawn interrupted her, and covering her mouth, she blinked sleepily. “Excuse me. But yes, they’re also aware Highland travel this time of year can be a trifle unpredictable.”
She yawned again. Perhaps she’d skip eating altogether and seek her bed.
God forbid they should become snowed in.
The unpleasant notion nearly stopped her upward trek. The longer the delay in her arrival, the more frantic her family would become. Mother would demand Father, Ewan, and half the clan immediately set out to find her.
One night in modest lodgings might be excused, but several with the riffraff below? Seonaid nibbled her lower lip. Surely her reputation wouldn’t suffer, especially with Una and Mrs. Wetherby sleeping within the same chamber. Another swell of gratitude swept her for Monsieur de Devaux’s interference.
Perhaps he wasn’t a complete toad after all.
Conceding that her abrupt departure from London mightn’t have been the best plan, pricked her pride. But she would’ve had to wait for her parents’ letter to be delivered, and then for whomever they designated to fetch her from London to arrive. At least three weeks of waiting. Probably longer.
No. She had quite enough of Polite Society after they treated her like a curiosity. Other than closeting herself in her chamber for nigh on a month or more, she’d done what she needed to, and frankly, she relished the control for once.
She’d never wanted the second sight but tried to accept her gift and hoped God intended it for good. Truthfully, in recent years, an dara shealladh had become more of a curse, and she dreaded a vision’s onset. If she never had another, that suited her perfectly.
Grandmother ceased having hers when she married, and with all her heart, Seonaid secretly hoped the same would happen to her. Except, in general, men hadn’t shown her much interest.
Intrigue and perverse fascination about her visions and foresight brought a few ’round, but she frightened most males, including the brawny Highlanders.
She hardly blamed them.
Who wanted a wife able to foretell your death or other disagreeable things Providence might send your way? Or, perhaps, a wife who might distinguish your indiscretions, your innermost secrets, or if you’d lied to her?
After nearly ten years, she still didn’t understand what caused an onset, so she couldn’t assure a spouse she mightn’t learn something unpleasant.
As much as she’d missed home, apprehension coiled, knotting her belly. Her sisters had married, and Dugall, her beloved younger brother, was off to university soon. Who would keep her company besides her menagerie?
Oh, she’d plenty of acquaintances and a few friends in the village, but with the exception of Mother, no female confidants. She didn’t know what her role was at Craiglocky anymore other than a healer of animals and, occasionally, of people.
Wearily stepping to the door of her chamber, Seonaid fished in her reticule for the key. If she’d known Monsieur le baron intended to play the gentleman and carry her valises, she’d have held the key instead. Finding the metal length at last, she offered him an apologetic smile.
With a slight scrape, the key slid home, and the reluctant lock gave way. Dusk, encouraged by the unrelenting storm, had claimed her due early, and long shadows hid the room’s modest contents.
Monsieur de Devaux made quick work of lighting the candle sitting atop a bedside table, and then two more on a wall sconce. Hands upon his narrow hips, he surveyed the simple chamber. “Not as well-appointed as you’re accustomed to, I dare say, but it appears clean, non?”
Tossing her possessions onto the closest bed, she shook her head. “You’re mistaken if you think I require fripperies and fancy furnishings. While I can appreciate beauty and finery, I prefer simplicity in all things.”
“I’m not surprised, ma petite.” Appreciation warmed his dark eyes.
“Oh?” Calling her ma petite was much too forward. She should have reprimanded him the first time below, but quite frankly, she’d been too tired.
His lips arced into a charming smile, one he’d used regularly given the fine lines near his eyes’ outer corners and framing his handsome mouth, as he retrieved her valises from where he’d left them by the doorway. “Some things are completely exquisite and memorable as they are. Adornment and embellishment detract from their splendor.”
Another compliment?
Heady delight wrestled with logic’s warning.
The mesmerizing spark in his lovely, pewter-flecked jet eyes, and the way he blended his vowels, made each word a sensual caress that reverberated to her toes and sent heat coursing along her veins.
By all that was holy, Monsieur de Devaux was a practiced rogue if he caused her—an intelligent, insightful, woman immune to his charms and good looks—to react thusly.
You’re no more immune, Seonaid Célestine Heather Ferguson, than he’s Scots and cows cluck.
She was too immune.
After all, she wasn’t a green girl fresh from the schoolroom. No, indeed. Why, she’d experienced a London Season with fine gentlemen galore, and Craiglocky had many handsome men coming and going. Plus, she’d spent three months amongst France’s High Society.
She knew about men.
Except, none other than Monsieur de Devaux ever looked at her with a heated, alluring gaze. Or said the outrageous things he dared. Why did he continue to pay her marked attention? Perhaps all Frenchmen were equally obtuse and overly confident of their maleness.
Yes. That must be it. She should’ve recalled as much from her botched stint in Paris. Frenchmen were an arrogant, cocky bunch.
Placing her leather valises onto the bed, he examined the powdery white drifting from the sky beyond the window. “We might be here for a few days.”
“I was afraid of that.” Nodding, she tugged one bag atop the colorful quilt toward her, then patted the case’s sides. “I’ve plenty of reading material, embroidery, and playing cards.”
“No dagger or dueling pistol?” He tapped the top with a long, well-manicured finger, yet his hand showed signs of toil as well.
At her inquisitive look, he chuckled.
“You mentioned you’re trained in weaponry. That’s a Scottish tradition, non?”
“Not really. More of a Ferguson one. I’m most skilled with a short sword.” She unlatched the satchel’s top and after opening it, withdrew a delicately carved silver stiletto sheath. “And I do have a blade with me. I shall sleep with it beneath my pillow.”
Stepping nearer, he took her hand, which still clenched the knife far harder than necessary. Spicy muskiness wafted upward as he bent, and her nostrils quivered in remembrance. His supple mouth grazed her knuckles, and this time not only did her silly knees threaten to buckle, something came loose in her stomach and flopped about.
Hunger. Fatigue. Tension.
Not attraction. Not to him. She wouldn’t allow it.
The day’s events had weakened her defenses. Tomorrow, after a good night’s rest, common sense would return full on.
I hope.
“You have no need to fear, mademoiselle. I shall act as your protector while we’re here.”
But who will protect me from you?
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped Seonaid, more from nerves than humor. “And how do you intend to do that, Monsieur de Devaux? Lay your pallet outside my chamber door each night?”
Head tilted, the curly, slightly too-long hair at his nape teasing his russet collar, he slanted his ebony brows over eyes the hue of twilight fog. “Exactement.”
“You cannot be serious.” How would she sleep, knowing he was a few feet away? The man had her in a dither, and she loathed it.
“Your door will be barred from within.” He pointed at a sturdy bolt. “And I shall simply be a deterrent to any sot who oversteps the bounds, oui?”
“No.” She shook her head, but stopped at once when pain pinched between her eyes. A common occurrence when she became overly fatigued. “I don’t—”
“You may thank me suitably later, ma petite.” Winking, he sketched a bow. Then with a flash of white teeth, and while whistling a haunting melody, he and his masculine glory took their leave.
Seonaid still gaped at the door when Una and Mrs. Wetherby lumbered in a few moments later, breathing heavily from their labored climb.
“What are ye starin’ at the door fer?” Una peered into the hallway and scratched her head. Brow knitted, she shifted her puzzled gaze to Seonaid. “Well?”
“Nothing of import.”
“Hmph,” Una huffed, unfastening her cloak. “And that be why ye be standin’ there lookin’ confounded?”
Sliding her dagger beneath her pillow, Seonaid lifted a shoulder. “Monsieur de Devaux’s humor is somewhat peculiar.”
Smelling suspiciously of spirits, Mrs. Wetherby wobbled straight to the other bed, and after letting her cloak drop to the floor, lay down without removing her shoes. “Something’s afoot below,” she mumbled sleepily—halfway to bosky—as she dragged the quilt to her chins.
“What d’ye mean?” Hands splayed upon her generous hips, Una gave the pickled chaperone a gimlet stare.
Evidently, her patience with Mrs. Wetherby had grown as sparse as Seonaid’s.
“Ye drank so freely, I be surprised if’n ye can recall yer name.” Disapproval creased her forehead.
“On m’way back from th’ necessary, I overheard whispered arguing in th’ kitchen. Th’ innkeepers fear thieves or highwayman be amongst us.” Mrs. Wetherby sighed and shutting her eyes, snuggled further into her pillow. “Might be robbed, ravished, or murdered in m’sleep.”
Una shut the door and after drawing the pin home with a comforting clink, leaned against the wood, her forehead furrowed into deep ridges. “Truth in that. A rough lot be under this roof. Best plan on sleepin’ with yer blade in hand, Miss Seonaid. I ken I shall.”
Chapter 5
Jacques stood as Mademoiselle Ferguson, followed by her ever-watchful towering maid, entered the common room. He’d hoped she would choose to eat below rather than dine in her chamber as she had last evening.
Unable to retire and take up his self-appointed station outside her door until the others had sought their third-story rooms, he’d been forced to endure a yawn-inspiring, boring-as-death evening in the taproom.
A minuscule grin tugged his mouth upward.
Not entirely tedious, perhaps.
Mrs. Kerrigan, wielding a broom and swearing in Gaelic as she chased her husband from the kitchen, had proven quite entertaining. So had the Highlander toppling off his chair in a drunken stupor. Unfortunately, his tartan snagged on the way down, exposing his hairy arse.
That Jacques hadn’t needed to see.
Up at dawn, he’d made use of the kitchen to shave and cleanse his teeth before venturing to the stables and checking on his horseflesh to determine the feasibility of leaving. Despite their cramped quarters, the horses fared well. Still, no one but a fool would leave today. Nearly eighteen inches of snow carpeted the road.
Hesitating at the common room’s entrance, Mademoiselle Ferguson perused the guests before speaking over her shoulder to her maid. Mademoiselle’s beauty stood out starkly in the room, much like a delicate, pink rose tossed atop a fly-ridden dung heap.
His lips twitched at the image. The other patrons mightn’t appreciate the comparison.
Madame Wetherby remained conspicuously absent, but after the copious amount of whisky she’d downed before Una hauled her upstairs, if the woman roused before noon, he’d be astounded.
Not the best choice of an attendant, and all the more reason he’d assigned himself the role of Mademoiselle Ferguson’s guardian until they reached Craiglocky Keep. That detail she needn’t discover, since she’d probably raise a fuss and refuse his escort.
Reverend Fletcher had yet to make an appearance this morning too. Last night, once he’d finished eating, he’d scowled at the other guests, and muttering about the trials of contending with unholy rabble, shambled upstairs.
Perchance circumstances or birth forced him into service in the church rather than by any choice of his. That would certainly account for his gruff behavior. Just as well he was absent since most of the tables were full, save Jacques’s, nestled below a window in a corner next to the fireplace. Besides, unless the rector offered him a fortune vast enough to save le Manoir des Jardins, Jacques wasn’t eating with the surly vicar.
Indicating the vacant chairs surrounding his table—chairs he’d politely refused others in anticipation of Mademoiselle Ferguson imminent appearance—he gestured and invited her to join him in breaking her fast. He’d waited to eat as well, despite his stomach’s adamant, loud, and increasingly frequent protests.
The night passed uneventfully, more likely due to the footpads’ inability to pike off once they’d robbed their victims, than lack of plotting to rob them.
Even now, the scurrilous chaps lounged upon their benches, scrutinizing the guests and exchanging a calculated whisper every few minutes. Their attention hovered on Mademoiselle Ferguson’s graceful advance toward his table, emerald earrings dangling from her delicate ears and a matching brooch pinned to her fichu.
Better have a word with her about wearing jewels while we’re stranded here.
Truth to tell, she’d be wise to put them in his care. His coach contained a concealed drawer.
Jacques arched a contemptuous brow and, issuing a silent dare across the short distance, gave the gawkers
a quashing scowl. Few men could best him with a blade. In fact, only one.
Mademoiselle Ferguson’s brother, Laird McTavish.
To a slovenly man, the crétins glowered and curled their lips, exposing yellowed or missing teeth. But as spineless poltroons do, their attention skittered away from his unspoken challenge. Their kind didn’t fight if they could avoid it. Non, they skulked about in the dark with the other vermin.
During the night, the snow had ceased falling. Given the vivid sunlight streaming through and heating the dust-covered, irregular windowpanes, the pristine white blanketing the Highlands mightn’t last long. A day or two of warmer temperatures could have them on the road by week’s end.
Bittersweet knowledge.
He would, at last, be able to inspect his mining venture, and pray God it proved lucrative. Otherwise . . .
Stuffing the dismal thought into an appropriately dingy corner of his mind, he focused on Mademoiselle Ferguson elegantly wending her way amongst the tables, her hips’ gentle sway tempting far more than they should. A most welcome distraction from his rueful reverie.
A sudden image invaded his ponderings.
Seonaid lying gloriously nude across his bed’s burgundy and gold coverlet. Her silky hair fanning the pillows, and her slender arms reaching for him.
Merde.
Hunger must have addled his brain. Or he’d gone fou, mad. As delicious as the vision was, he promptly quelled it.
McTavish would gut him in a flash if he ever suspected Jacques’s wayward musings. Puzzling contemplations given his restricted circumstances. He was practical if naught else, and entertaining fanciful thoughts about Mademoiselle Ferguson perpetuated unadulterated madness indeed.
Although, he rather liked their forced company. Being snowbound gave him an opportunity to unwrap the protective layers she swathed herself in. Perhaps he could, at last, unravel how she’d managed to snarl his thoughts and reasoning while setting his blood afire.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 4
